What You Do Best
by CountryGrl
Summary: John Watson used to think only children had nightmares. Sherlock Holmes used to think tea was a bit pointless. No slash, but read it however you want. -Updated because of kind reviewers. :
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: I have recently become obsessed with this show, so I'm just throwing in my two-pennoth. I find these two quite hard to write because they're so perfectly done on TV, so please tell me what you thought!**_

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><p><strong>WHAT YOU DO BEST<strong>

The War is everywhere. Behind him and in front of him, on either side, encircling him. Death fills his eyes and his ears and his lungs; he is breathing destruction. Gunshots, blood, the dying screams of a thousand men, all of it raging in a torrent through his head, unrelenting. His only comfort is that, above everyone else's agony, he will not be able to hear his own scream.

_John._

It is raining. He is on the streets of London now and it is raining, but he cannot feel anything. This world is grey, its surfaces flat, the people who walk by have not known War, have not lived. Instead of the fear and the pain there is the numbness, the emptiness, _you miss the War, John, _he cannot _feel _anything. He screams at the silence but it absorbs his curses, mutes them.

_John!_

Now there's a familiar face, the picture of confidence, because the owner of the face cannot see what John sees. He sees what happens next. There is the glint of a sharp blade and a pool of blood and frantic gasps for breath and John's own voice saying _no, Sherlock, not you. _

_JOHN!_

A shudder, and he is awake.

"John. You were screaming. I'm trying to think. Do keep it down."

Moments later he is sitting in an armchair and a hot mug is being pressed into the hand which is shaking the least violently. "What's this?"

"Tea."

"I know that. From you, though? Bit domestic."

Sherlock takes his position in the opposite chair. "Social convention. Person A in shock, person B brings tea. I've read about it."

"Pretty clued-up, aren't you, for a sociopath."

"Drink the tea, John."

"I'm about to. And, er, thanks."

"For the tea?"

"And for waking me up. The end is always the worst bit."

"It's recurrent, then. The same dream."

"Mmm." It had been a statement, not a question. And remarkable though his flatmate's skills of deduction might be, John felt sure even he could have recognised these symptoms in someone else - the same dark circles under the same hollow, scared eyes which stared back at him from the bathroom mirror every morning, the same ridiculous tremor in the hand holding the toothbrush, the same flinch at the first sudden noise, the same dream.

"You said I was distracting you, but we're not on a case. What were you thinking about?"

The world's only consulting detective rested his chin on his clasped hands. "Possible cures for pathological sleeping disorders."

"Sweet of you."

"Not really. We won't be between cases forever and once I need to concentrate again, you're going to have to stop."

"Yeah, you were right, not so sweet." He looks at the clock on the mantlepiece. "Don't suppose it's really worth going back to bed again. Almost morning."

Sherlock rose from his chair. "Good, you're staying. I was just going to get Moses out of the freezer. He should be ready by now."

"If Moses is who I think Moses is - and, by the way, I find it still more creepy that you're giving them names now - then I'm changing my mind. Good night."

"Pity, I thought Moses was an apt name. Moses supposes his toeses are roses..."

"And if you're going to start _singing_ about the disembodied feet, I'm definitely going."

"To be precise, it's more of a spoken children's rhyme than a song. But Moses supposes erroneously..."

"Good night, Sherlock."

"Good morning, John. Sleep tight." John turns to go, but pauses at the next remark, "One question, though."

"Fire away."

"Why was I there?"

"What?"

"In your dream. Just before you woke up, you called my name. What was I doing in Afghanistan?"

John raises his eyebrows, "Sticking your nose in, probably. It's what you do best."


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: A couple of reviewers asked for more...so I am not to blame for the probable suckishness of this! ;) I'm just not smart enough to write Sherlock, so I have to skip past his intellect a bit and write his eccentric side, which usually leads to some bizarre caricature that's far too childish. So apologies for that. But anyway, enjoy! **

In all fairness, Sherlock _had_ warned John about the violin playing before he moved in. This, however, was the first time it had been quite so loud quite so late at night.

Still, staring up at the blank ceiling and hearing the constant, oddly reassuring music from the next room was certainly one way of avoiding night terrors. Unfortunately this also meant avoiding sleep altogether.

It occurred to John that the music had suddenly sped up dramatically - the start of a new piece, perhaps. What's more, the sound was now much louder and much...closer.

Frowning, John got out of bed and crossed to the door. Sure enough, standing right there, instrument raised and bow coming to an abrupt halt, was Sherlock.

"Sherlock," John said wearily, leaning against the doorframe, "If I ask you what you're doing, am I going to get a proper reply?"

Sherlock made a 'hush' sound. "Go back to bed," he whispered. "I'm playing you classical music, it's supposed to be soothing. You know, for your nightmares. For reasons we've already discussed regarding my concentration..."

"I'm touched, Sherlock, honestly, but if you think that ...racket... is soothing, then clearly you've deleted the word's definition along with the basic workings of the universe."

Sherlock looked injured. "It's Wagner's _Ride of the Valkyries_."

"It's loud, and it's fast, and frankly it's doing more to keep me awake than get me to sleep."

"But the website said..."

John sighed. "Yes. It probably did say classical music is supposed to be soothing. Just...not that particular piece."

"I learnt the whole thing. I even made some improvements."

Trust him to think he could improve on Wagner. "And I appreciate it." John saw his way out now. "In fact, you're right, it was quite soothing." A yawn. "I feel like I might just drop off into a dreamless sleep while I'm standing here."

"Good. Good, right, I'll be off then."

Sherlock turned on his heels to go. John watched him, smiling to himself. Worried about his concentration. _Please. _Still, it was nice of him to be so concerned, even if he did try to cover it up (very unconvincingly, for someone who could shed a tear over a 'dead' husband he'd never known).

He lay down on his bed, relieved to finally be able to sleep.

. , . , . , . , . , . , . , . , . , . , . , . , . , .

"It worked, then."

John wandered bleary-eyed into the sitting room the next morning to find Sherlock already seated, dismantling what looked like a Rubik's cube, but had a dozen or so too many squares.

"Sorry, what?"

"The music. It worked."

John suppressed a smile. "I don't have a dream every night, you know. Usually it's only after a stressful day or something. So we can't _really _say it was all down to the music..."

Sherlock looked at him stonily. "...however!" John said hastily. "We can't say for sure that it wasn't. So thank you, Sherlock, it was very..." he faltered lamely, unsure what word to use but settling for the rather mundane, "nice."

His flatmate grumbled something about 'not trying to be nice, only trying to keep you quiet, because a man ought to be able to think in peace in his own home'. "Yes, yes," said John agreeably, grinning as he put the kettle on. "Obviously. But even so."

"It's sort of a pity that worked, actually, the next thing I was going to try was meditation."

"You're not serious...?"

Sherlock smiled, that rare facial contortion which somehow meant more coming from him since it was about one hundred times rarer than in other people. "Of course not. Your mind is nowhere near disciplined enough."

"Thanks." John laughed despite himself. "You're probably right."


End file.
